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MAIN 


Moses  Traddles. 


I.IJ3RARV 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


IKT  OF* 

r  c. 


J     CX-runJl/v-\ 


Prefix. 


THE  GOOD  MAN. 


NCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  had  two  sons. 
The  one  was  a  good  little  boy  and  did  everything 
that  was  right,  just  the  way  he  ought  to  do;  the  other 
was  a  bad  little  boy  who  did  everything  which  he  ought  not 
to  do,  and  was  therefore  a  constant  worry  to  his  father, 
his  mother,  all  the  neighbors  and  everybody  else  who 
came  in  contact  with  him. 

Now,  strange  to  relate,  these  two  little  boys  grew  in 
age  and  experience,  in  goodness  and  in  badness,  as  time 
progressed.  The  first  little  boy,  who  was  named  Johnnie, 
was  a  constant  attendant  upon  Sunday  services  and  divine 
worship,  and  was  the  pride  of  the  minister  and  the  chief 
lamb  of  his  flock.  The  second  little  boy,  who  was  named 
Willie,  wasn't  the  pride  of  anybody,  or  the  lamb  of  any 
flock;  in  fact,  he  wasn't  a  lamb  at  all,  but  a  black  little 
sheep. 

One  day  the  minister  came  to  the  father  of  these  two 
boys  and  said  that  he  was  looking  for  a  young  man  to 
send  as  a  missionary  to  the  Cannibal  Isles.  Willie,  of 
course,  quickly  said  that  he  was  not  his  snap;  but  Johnnie, 
with  flashing  eye  and  swelling  voice,  spoke  up  and  said 
that  he  had  long  wished  for  some  such  chance  to  devote 
his  energies  and  consecrate  his  life  to  a  noble  cause. 


—  6  — 

Now,  it  is  easy  to  see  which  of  these  boys  made 
the  good  man  and  which  the  bad  one.  Johnnie  went  as 
the  missionary  to  the  Cannibal  Islands,  and  immediately 
welcomed  by  the  natives  was  contributed  at  once  as  an 
ingredient  to  soup;  while  Willie,  scorning  a  lofty  fate, 
stayed  at  home  and  became  simply  a  hard-working  busi 
ness  man,  and  supported  his  father  and  comforted  his 
mother  in  their  old  age. 

But  to  come  at  this  matter  on  another  tack.  It  is  safe 
to  say  that  we  all  know  the  good  man  quickly  enough 
when  we  see  him.  It  is  easy  enough  to  point  him  out, 
although  we  may  not  exactly  know  what  really  are  the 
materials  which  go  to  make  him  up.  *•  Good  man"  has 
come  to  be  such  a  universal,  all-including  term,  that  there 
are  very  few  of  us  which  it  really  shuts  out:  but  still 
there  is  a  deep  significance  to  the  words  if  we  choose  to 
trace  it  out. 

The  good  man,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  is  made 
out  of  simple  material,  and  it  does  not  require  much 
material  to  make  him  up.  The  man  who  is  brave,  honest 
and  persevering  is  as  good  a  man  as  can  be  found  any 
where  in  the  world  about.  These  component  elements 
are  the  materials  out  of  which  every  "  good  man  "  is  neces 
sarily  built.  If,  in  addition  to  these  characteristics,  the 
man  be  naturally  able  or  bright,  well  educated,  cultured 
in  music,  literature  and  the  arts,  these  will  all  add  to, 
enlarge  the  man,  and  finish  him  off.  But,  without  these 
latter  acquirements  and  touches,  all  men  who  are  brave, 


honest  and  persevering  are  good  men.  Be  their  station 
in  life  high  or  low,  judged  from  a  high  point  of  view, 
they  are  all  in  the  same  class. 

All  honest  men  are  kin,  some  one  has  said.  Similarly 
there  is  a  bond  of  union  between  all  good  men.  By  pure 
sympathy  of  heart  and  nature  they  are  bound  together 
closer  than  fraternity,  club,  lodge  or  union  men.  They  are 
at  the  bottom  of  things — they  are  the  real  soldiers  in  the 
thick  of  the  battle  of  life. 

The  man  who  is  honest  and  persevering  is  a  good 
man,  but  the  "  good  man  "  is  he  who  is  brave  as  well.  To 
be  brave  means  always  to  have  the  courage  to  do  what  is 
right.  Honesty  is  a  broad  term  and  must  be  understood 
to  embrace  a  multitude  of  smaller  virtues,  and  must 
include  the  instinctive  ability  to  know  the  right.  To  be 
persevering  is  but  to  work  ahead — is  but  putting  in  play 
and  utilizing  these  other  virtues.  All  men  who  are  hon 
est  and  persevering  are  a  good  class  of  men.  They  who 
are  at  the  same  time  brave,  naturally  able,  cultured  and 
educated  make  up  the  best  men — the  highest  grade  of  good 
men.  But  natural  ability,  mere  accidents  of  birth,  culture 
and  education  should  be  sparingly  reckoned  in.  Honesty 
of  soul  is  the  sovereign  virtue  and  the  fundamental  element 
in  the  make-up  of  a  good  man.  Courage  and  perseverance 
come  next  in  line.  The  good  man  is  the  highest  man. 


POEIMS,    SKBTOHEIS 


OF 


Moses  Traddles 


PRESS  OF  KEATING  &  CO. 

CINCINNATI,  OHIO. 
1890. 


Copyrighted  1890   by  tlu-  TraiMlos  Co 


—  11  — 


NOT  A   CHESTNUT  TREE. 

Our  setter  dog  stood  by  a  sycamore  tree, 
While  up  it  the  house-cat  hied, 

Gyrating  its  back  and   willowy  tail, 
Rejoicing  with  honest  pride. 

The  dog  looked  on  with  a  quizzical  air, 
Then  lost  in  thought  seemed  he, 

Somehow  or  other  just  on  to  the  fact, 
That  he  could  not  climb  a  tree. 

"The  dog,"  he  mused,  "can  run  and  frisk, 

And  can  toy  with  a  string  all  day, 
But  he  can't  climb  up  a  sycamore  tree, 
Because  he.  ain't  built  that  way." 


—  12  — 


THE  TOUTH  AND  THE  BROOK, 


A  youth  stood  by  a  babbling  brook,  and  gazed  in  its  waters 

blue; 
''  Let  me  ask  you  a  question,  my  pretty  brook,  and  give 

me  an  answer  true: 
Why  is   it   that   during  the   day,  and   e'en   through   the 

darksome  night, 

You  patter  along  the  self-same  way,  always  happy  and 
bright? 

"  Why  is  it  you  sing  your  song,  as  glad  as  a  child  at  play 
I  should  think  your  heart  would  oft  grow  dull,  and  steal 

your  music  away. 
When  the  gay  birds  leave  you  and  hasten  south,  and  yon 

hills  are  bleak  with  snow, 
I  should  think  your  spirits  would  slowly  flag,  and  your 

waters  fail  to  flow. 

'I  should  think  you  would  tire  of  your  ceaseless  task,  for 
ever  you  seem  to  go — 

Through  spring,  and  summer,  and  fall,  and  winter; 
through  sunshine,  rain  and  snow; 

Do  you  never  stop  to  question  whither,  do  you  never 
long  for  rest? 


Pray  tell  me  truly,  my  pretty  brook:  answer   my    one 
request." 

*  *  %  * 

The  brook  rolled  on  in  silence  golden,  it  bubbled  along 

all  day; 
The  youth  sat  dreaming,  hoping  an  answer,  till  evening 

beckoned  away. 
And  as  he  went  the  answer  came,  but  it  came  from  the 

azure  sky, 
That  the  brook  was  happy  because  it  was  toiling,  even 

not  knowing  the  why. 


—  14  — 


A  LEAP  FOR  LOVE. 


A  howling  chasm,  deep,  abyssmal  and  foreboding, 
Wild  waters  rushing  in  the  gulch  below, 

Protruding  rocks,  sharp-cutting,  fierce  and  vengeful, 
E'en  adding  fury  to  the  hurried  waters'  flow. 

On  this  side  stands  a  youth  with  flashing  eye, 

With  set,  determined,  almost  desperate  face,  and  pale; 

On  yonder  side,  with  plighted  troth,  the  maid  he  loves, 
This  howling  chasm  leap  or  all  hopes  fail. 

Unhappy  days,  a  loveless  life,  on  this  side  if  he  stay— 
And  yet  his  friends  entreat  him  not  to  try; 

Honor,  happiness,  brightness  await  him  on  the  other  side, 
His  mind  is  set  to  either  do  or  die. 

But  look,  he  pauses,  'tis  a  leap  beyond  his  power, 
Dread  fears,  dark  doubts  creep  up  and  bid  him'stay: 

Picture  his  dreadful  fate  if  he  doth  fail, 

Falling,  falling-a  battered,  bleeding,  mangled  mass  of 
clay. 

But  now  he  starts.     He  rouses  him  once  more. 

All  doubts  fled,  a  bright  look  in  his  eye, 
He  seems  to  trust  in  more  than  wonted  strength, 

At  worst  he  can  in  trying  fail  and  die. 


But  now  again  his  courage  wanes,  fear  dims  his  eye, 
A  tempting  voice  within  him  bids  him  stay, 

And  asks  him  why  not  dwell  secure  upon  this  side, 
Why  madly  leap  and  throw  a  life  away. 

But  lo,  he  marshals  strength  once  more — 

Transcendent  courage  lent  him  from  on  high, 

He  straightens  up  and  takes  his  start, 

Ye  gods,  forestall  him  wings  and  let  him  fly. 

He  fails!     His  feet  have  missed  the  farther  side! 

Must  so  much  courage  for  so  little  go! 
But,  no,  his  hands  have  caught  the  jagged  edge! 

The  gods  be  praised,  for  they  have  willed  it  so. 

Applause  now  comes  from  those  upon  this  side, 
E'en  those  who  love  him  not  join  in  the  roar, 

His  love  soon  greets  him  with  a  happy  smile, 

And  loves  him  even  now  more  truly  than  before. 


—  16  — 


BACK  IN  THE   TWO  MONTHS  AGO. 


The  pain  which  I  felt  in  my  loss,  the   weight  of  that  sad, 

sudden   blow, 
Has  quite   faded   out  and  gone,    sunk    back    in  the    two 

months  ago. 
My  hopes  were  dashed  rudely  away,  I  was  brought  to  my 

senses  so, 
But  the  pain  of  that  sad,  sudden  loss  has  sunk  back  in  the 

two  months  ago. 

Back  in    the  two  months  ago,   a   world   of  relief  in  the 

thought, 
That   time,   the    physician,  has    healed    the    wounds    by 

experience  bought: 

Back  in  the  two  months  ago,  I  would  not  endure  it  again, 
But  the  joys  of  the  bright,  cheerful  now  blot  out  the  deep 

troubles  of  then. 

The  future  looked  dark  and  forlorn,  the  present  o'erflowing 

with  woe, 
The  heart    dull    and  heavy  with   care,   back   in   the    two 

months  ago. 
But  it  was  back  in  the  two  months  ago,  the  present  is 

joyful  again, 
Of  the  grief  then  filling  my  heart  only  memory's  traces 

remain. 


—  17  — 


Back  in  the    two  months  ago,  a    world   of  relief  in  the 

thought, 
That    time,     the    physician,    has    healed    the    wounds    by 

experience  bought. 
Back  in  the  two  months  ago,  many  cares  which  look  mighty 

to-day, 
In  the  future  will  sink  in  the  background,  their  harshness 

fading  away. 


—  18  — 

OH  KEEP  MT  PICTURE  HUNG  UP  ON  THE 
WALL. 

When  sadder  days  may  come,  when  my  life  has  ebbed  and 
gone, 

When  my  soul  at  last  has  answered  heaven's  call, 
Then  that  you'll  remember  me,  whenever  it  you  see, 

Oh  keep  my  picture  hung  up  on  the  wall. 

Oh  keep  my  picture  hung  up  on  the  wall,  up  on  the  wall, 
Don't  let  my  memory  sudden  fade  away; 

Whenever  it  you  see,  oh  then  remember  me, 
Remember  round  my  knees  you  used  to  play. 

When     the    light    is    burning    low,    and     the    coals    are 
mouldering  slow, 

And  the  wind  is  moaning  sadly,  in  the  fall; 
You,  dozing  in  your  chair,  will  see  it  hanging  there, 

Oh  keep  my  picture  hung  up  on  the  wall. 

And  again  in  early  spring,  when  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
And  a  pretty  shade  of  green  is  tinting  all, 

From  care  you  will  be  free,  but  I  pray  you  think  of  me, 
Oh  keep  my  picture  hung  up  on  the  wall. 

Oh  keep  my  picture  hung  up  on  the  wall,  up  on  the  wall: 

I  used  to  see  my  father's  hanging  there: 
When  the  heart  is  sad  and  low,  'tis  a  pleasing  thing  to 
know, 

That  we  have  a  friend  in  heaven,  who  waits  us  there. 


WHEN    MUSIC,    HE  A  VENLT   MAID,     WAS 
TO  UNO. 


When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
Our  voices  aloud  to  the  heavens  rung, 
Attuned  to  the  lay  which  through  the  trees, 
The  serried  leaf  played  on  the  breeze. 

A  fourth  of  July  had  not  then  come, 
Men  hadn't  struck  on  the  big  bass  drum, 
The  donkey  had  never  been  known  to  bray, 
While  cats  had  not  learned  in  sweet  tones  to  say: 

"  Is  there  anything  doing  in  your  yard,  Tom, 
If  not,  why  over  in  my  yard  come." 
Sister's  beau  was  around  but  he  didn't  sung, 
Oh,  would  that  heavenly  maids  stayed  young. 


—  20  — 


MORE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  street-car  bell! 

The  near  approach  of  steedless,  silent  car  its  clanging  notes 

foretell, 
How  its  clang,  clang,  clang  puts  your  nerves  upon  the  rack: 

Clear  the  track,  clear  the  track 

Clear  the  track,  track,  track, 

Clear  the  track;  will  you  please  clear  the  track. 
As  they  onward  swiftly  glide, 
How  glad  you  are  to  ride, 
Without  a  seat  inside, 

But  hanging  on  the  back! 

Here  we  come!  clear  the  track! 

Clear  the  track,  track,  track, 

Clear  the  track,  clear  the  track,  clear  the  track. 

Hear  the  chestnut  bell! 

What  a  repetition  of    old,   old  stories   its    single   strokes 

foretell. 
How  its  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle  lays  you  flat  out  on  the  floor: 

I've  heard  it  all  before,  I've  heard  it  all  before — 
How  oft  we  heard  it  tinkle, 
When  it  was  the  latest  wrinkle; 
How  softly  it  would  jingle 

As  our  tales  we  counted  o'er. 


—  21    — 

I've  heard  it  all  before,  I've  heard  it  all  before. 
Ting,  ling,  ling,  ling,  ling,  ling,  ling: 
I've  heard  that  all  before. 

Hear  the  breakfast  bell! 

What  a  conglomeration  of  hash  and  oatmeal  its  pealing 

notes  foretell. 
How  its  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle  tolls  out  your  usual  fate; 

You  are  late,  late,  late, 

You  are  late,  you  are  late. 
With  your  dreams  it  does  commingle, 
Till  you  scarce  believe  it  single, 
And  your  ears  begin  to  tingle, 
As  it  sounds  your  usual  fate: 
How  its  warning  notes  vibrate, 
Turn  your  waking  thoughts  too  hate, 
As  it  sounds  your  usual  fate: 

You  are  late,  you  are  late, 

You  are  late,  late,  late, 

You  are  late,  you  are  late,  you  are  late 
How  hard  its  calling  seems, 
As  it  mingles  with  your  dreams; 
Like  a  ghoul  it  almost  seems, 
Calling  out  your  usual  fate: 

You  are  late,  you  are  late, 

You  are  late,  late,  late. 

You  are  late,  late,  late,  late,  late,  late,  late; 

\Tou  are  late,  you  are  late,  you  are  late. 


22  — 


COM  ME  IL  FAUT! 


"  How  do  you  do,"  a  poor  girl  said, 

To  the  rich  little  girl  with  the  golden  head, 

Her  neighbor  across  the  way. 
"  I'm  very  well,"  was  the  only  reply, 

She  had  time  to  make  in  passing  by, 
Pursuing  her  onward  way. 

"  Won't  you  stop  ?"  called  number  one, 
"  I  know  games  that  are  lots  of  fun; 

You  don't  have  to  go." 
"  I'd  like  to  stay,"  she  replied  with  regret, 
"  But  my  mamma  doesn't  know  your  mamma  yet, 

And  it  wouldn't  be  comme  il  faut" 


—  23  — 
A  DIFFERENT  EOT. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning   deck,  whence  all  but  him 

had  fled; 
The  curling   smoke  and   glistening   flames    went  circling 

'round  his  head; 
His  father,  when    the  fire   broke  out,  had   skipped   in   the 

yawl  for  shore, 
And  now  he  called  unto  his  son  to  brave  the  ocean's  roar. 


The   flames   rolled   high,   the  crumbling  masts   bade    the 

young  man  to  go, 
But    still  he   lingered   on   the    deck,  he   feared    the    wild 

waves  so; 
"Jump,  jump,  my   boy,"  his    father  cried,    "I'm   waiting 

here  for  you." 
The  boy,  distressed  between  two  ills,  knew  not  what  he 

should  do. 

"Oh  father  mine,"  he  called  ashore,  "  why  did  you  leave 

me  here  ? 
Why   did   you   leave  your  son  to  die,  through   mad    and 

hasty  fear; 
If  I  jump  in,  I'll  surely  sink — down  to  the  bottom  of  the 

sea; 
Good  heavens!  a  companion  I  for  sharks  and  Ma-gin-ty." 


—  24  — 

"Jump,  jump,  my  son,"  the  father  cried  above  the  waves' 

wild  roar, 

"  Oh,  jump,  my  lad,  into  the'sea,  or  never  see  me  more; 
Jump,  my  lad,  into  the  sea — mind  now — hear  what  I  say, 
You  never  can  expect  to  live  in  any  other  way." 

Then,  the  lad,  nerved  up  at  last,  the  flames  e'en  scorching 

him, 

Jumped  into  the  angry  sea  and  vainly  tried  to  swim, 
And   down    he  went — then   rose  again  ;  but   since  he  had 

no  show, 
He  loudly  called  out  to  the    shore    "There,   dad,   I   told 

you  so." 

The  winds  roared  on,  the  mad  sea  tossed,  the  boat  sank 
out  of  view, 

And  dark,  dark  night  came  creeping  up  upon  the  ship 
wrecked  crew; 

And  all  night  long,  through  gloom  and  mist,  over  and 
over  again, 

The  weird  refrain,  "I  told  you  so,"  came  gently  drifting 
in. 


THE  POPULAR  ASS. 


The  ass,  pure  and  simple, 

The  four-legged  creature, 

Which  feeds  upon  sawdust  and  hay, 
Is  a  patient  old  fellow, 

A  good  steady  toiler, 

And  all  very  well  in  his  way. 

He  sometimes  grows  airy, 

And  kicks  like  the  fairy, 

Who  shines  in  a  theatre  play; 
But  he  soon  comes  down  quiet, 
Resumes  his  hay  diet, 

And  has  nothing  further  to  say. 

But  the  popular  ass, 

The  two-legged  creature, 

Rigged  out  in  masculine  shape, 
Is  a  link  in  the  chain, 

Quite  as  hard  to  supply, 

As  the  famous  Darwinian  ape. 

All  of  mankind, 

To  his  asinine  mind, 

Except  a  select  very  few, 


—  26  — 

Are — "  a  f  ah -off  race, 

Meah  consumahs  of  space, 

Quite  out  of  his  line  of  view." 

He  walks — ah,  so  straight; 

He  talks — simply  great, 

He  never  makes  use  of  his  bray; 
He  looks — always  neat, 
Except  for  his  feet, 

Which  have  been  shoed  the  wrong  way. 

His  hair,  all  brushed  down, 

And  carefully  combed, 

On  either  side  of  the  part; 
Just  as  a  donkey 

Is  brushed  and  combed, 

Before  he  is  hitched  to  the  cart 

He  lives  in  a  world, 

Which  is  all  of  his  own, 

And  the  prince  of  the  realm  is  he; 
Some  unknown  subjects, 
In  outer  darkness, 

He  makes  of  you  and  me 

The  cart  which  he  draws 

Is  tin,  and  on  wheels, 

And  is  loaded  down  with  conceit. 


—  27   — 

And  dragging  this  little  load  along, 

Over  a  road  which  is  clearly  wrong, 
He  thinks  he  can't  be  beat. 

And  his  aims — they  are  high — 
'  He  kicks  for  the  sky — 

He  must  be  thought  something  great 
Now  between  me  and  you, 
If  he  only  but  knew, 

He's  got  a  long  time  to  wait. 

There  are  popular  men. 

There  are  poplar  trees, 

And  other  things  poplar  too, 
But  the  egregious  ass, 

Of  the  two-legged  class, 

Is  out  of  it  by  a  few. 


—  28  — 


DO    WHAT  IS  RIGHT. 


To  do  what  is  right  is  the  great  work  of  man. 
If  you  simply  do  this,  you  do  all  that  you  can; 
No  one  ever  lived  who  was  really  a  man, 
Who  shaped  his  career  on  a  different  plan. 

Do  what  is  right;  and  then  you  can  say, 
That  no  better  man  treads  the  wide  world  to-day; 
However  lowly  your  sphere,  or  humble  your  lot, 
None  are  richer  than  you,  whether  seeming  or  not. 

Inferior  to  none;  none  rank  over  you; 
For  those  who  do  right  are  the  privileged  few. 
The  one  grand  prize  to  be  reaped  from  time's  flight, 
Is  becoming  a  man  from  doing  the  right. 

All  men  are  equal  who  do  what  is  right; 
Equal  in  spirit  in  God's  sacred  sight; 
Life's  leveling  end  carries  all  else  away — 
Rank,  riches  and  fame  rot  off  with  the  clay. 

Persevere,  keep  on  toiling,  be  honest  alway, 
And  you  do  what  is  right  for  each  separate  day 
Days  make  up  years,  years  make  up  life — 
A  long,  ceaseless,  fearless,  unyielding  strife. 

Man  is  much  more  than  a  creature  of  clay, 
His  soul  lives,  we  hope,  after  life  fades  away: 
If  not, — he  at  least  makes  the  best  of  the  fight, 
By  becoming  a  man  from  doing  the  right. 


—  31  — 


CHANGES. 


A  half  an  hour  ago  'twas  dark, 

The  sky  was  bleak  and  drear, 
The  cold,  gray  clouds  hung  threatening  low, 

The  sharp  wind  whistled  clear, 
A  rustling  moan  went  sadly  forth, 

From  fastly  eddying  leaves, 
And  birds  flew  home  to  warm,  snug  nests 

Or  shelter  sought  in  eaves; 
And  in  our  hearts,  the  same  cold  gray 

Was  coloring  every  thought — 
Our  hope  was  low,  our  courage  dull, 

With  dim  forebodings  fraught. 

But  now  warm  love  is  in  our  hearts, 

Hope  shines  forth  from  the  eye, 
Our  gloomy  thoughts  have  taken  wings, 

And  hied  them  to  the  sky; 
The  cold  gray  clouds  have  cleared  away, 

The  sharp,  shrill  wind  is  gone, 
The  birds  again  in  revels  sing, 

And  bask  them  in  the  sun. 
A  quiet  peace  pervades  the  earth, 

We  do  not  know  just  why, 
But  e'en  our  thoughts  seem  brightened  up, 

In  keeping  with  the  sky. 


32  — 


Another  world  it  seems  to  be, 

Since  one  short  hour  ago, 
The  sun  has  broken  forth  on  hig-h. 

O        * 

And  wrought  the  change  below. 
Just  so  the  change  from  life  itself — 

Earth's  cares  all  left  below, 
We  pass  from  earth  to  heaven  above, 

Whene'er  God  wills  it  so. 


—  33  — 


MIDNIGHT. 


'Tis  midnight,  weary  hour  of  rest, 
So  free  from  care  and  woe, 

The  earth  lies  clothed  in  winter's  dress, 
The  .stars  shine  all  aglow: 

The  lonely  monarch  of  the  night, 
The  owl,  sits  in  a  distant  tree; 

A  sullen  croak  proclaims  his  thought — 
At  night  alone  my  soul  is  free. 

Some  cheery  bird  now  thrusts  his  head 
O'er  his  snow-crested  nest, 

To  take  a  peep  at  eastern  sky, 
Lest  he  prolong  his  rest. 

The  dead,  calm  earth  lies  silence-bound 
At  this  most  sacred  hour; 

'Tis  then  we  feel  our  helplessness, 
In  nature's  awful  power. 

And  during  this  long,  peaceful  rest, 
When  thought  is  far  away, 

Some  power  e'er  watchful  o'er  us  all, 
Keeps  us  till  break  of  day. 


—  34  — 


E  VER  PRESENT. 


Ever  nature  keeps  on  changing, 

Darkness  follows  brightest  day; 
Men  themselves  succumb  to  ages, 

Time  reduces  them  to  clay. 
Though  the  world  be  clothed  in  darkness, 

Or  all  dancing  in  the  light, 
Nature  still  contains  within  her, 

One  all  present  power  and  might; 
With  our  eyes  we  see  her  beauties 

As  they  come,  and  bloom,  and  go; 
With  our  souls  we  feel  the  presence, 

Of  the  God  who  wills  it  so. 


—  35  — 


JOB'S  PRATER. 


Teach  me,  O  Lord,  to  know,  that  beyond  the  clouds, 
however  dark  they  be,  there  is  blue  sky, 

That  however  threatening  low  those  clouds  may  hang, 
the  wind  may  break  and  sweep  them  by. 

Teach  me,  O  Lord,  to  know  that  Patience  is  the  gentle 

wind  that  sweeps  the  clouds  away, 
That  happiness  and  contentment,  shining  ever  bright,  are 

two  the  grandest  stars  which  the  blue  skies  array. 

Teach  me,  O  Lord,  to  know  that   day  is    sure    to  follow 

even  the  darkest  night, 
That  earnest  work  in  life  is  the  glad  morning  sun  which 

puts  the  dark  to  flight. 

Teach  me,  O  Lord,  to   know,  that  life  on   this  terrestrial 

sphere,  is  but  a  storming  night, 
Which  must  be  followed  by  a  softly  dawning  day,  than 

human  hope,  more  bright. 

Teach  me,  O  Lord,  to  know  what  work  is — not  strivings 
after  fortune,  power  and  fame  the  livelong  day, 

But  simply  patient  endeavor  to  mould  and  shape  the 
spirit  from  the  clay. 


—  37  — 


WORKMAN  AT  HOME. 


I  met  a  man  one  summer  day, 

In  morning's  busy  hours, 
A  sturdy  son  of  toil  was  he, 

In  touch  with  nature's  powers; 
'Twas  in  the  city's  close  confines, 

His  brow  with  worry  fraught, 
His  hand  pressed  to  his  weary  head, 

In  meditation  wrought. 

At  close  of  day,  I  went  to  meet 

The  same  man  near  his  home, 
Out  in  the  country's  broad  expanse, 

Under  the  glimmering  dome; 
A  stronger,  younger  man  seemed  he, 

His  face  more  calm  and   clear, 
A  gladsome  easy  manner  his, 

Two  daughters  lingering  near; 
Another  man  it  is,  thought  I, 

But  no,  that  could  not  be — 
The  same  man  with  another  heart, 

A  lighter  one,  and  free. 


-  38- 


W OMAN'S  LOVE. 


A  brave  and  gallant  youth,  in  love  with  pretty  maid; 
Laid  bare  his  heart,  spoke  the  whole  truth,  and  list  for 

what  she  said: 
And   then   the   little  maid  blushed  deep,  and  brightness 

filled  her  eye, 
But  answered  naught— her  pretty  look  did  make  her  sole 

reply. 

But  man  is  not  with  such  content — he  longs  to  hear  her  say, 
That  her  whole  heart  is  his  alone,  since  his  she  stole  away 
And  pretty  looks  do  not  suffice,  they  only  cause  him  pain, 
He  pursues  her  still  closer  then,  and  asks  her  o'er  again. 

But,  oh,  the  pretty  little  maid,  beloved  by  such  a  man, 
Is  still  too  modest  yet,  by  far,  to  tell  him  all  she  can: 
She  cannot  tell  the  feelings  yet,  that  fill  her  tender  breast, 
She  only  knows  her  soul  at  peace,  her  heart  has  found  its 
rest. 

She  only  knows,  if  they  should  part,  her  light  would  fade 
away; 

She  only  knows  when  he  is  near  that  darkness  seems  like 
day; 

She  only  knows  if  he  should  die,  claimed  by  another's 

reign, 
That  then  she  lives  herself  no  more,  for  chaos  comes  again. 


—  39  — 


PLL    WAIT. 


I  rememoer  Uncle  Abner,  a'sitting  by  that  stove, 
One  wintry  evening  long  ago,  when  I  was  but  a  cove; 
His  old  white  head  was  bent  with  age,  his  face  betold  his 

fate; 
But  when  we  tried  to  pity  him,  he  only  said,  "  I'll  wait." 

He  knew  his  days  were  numbered,  he  could  tell  it  by  the 

pain, 
But  he   was   too    kind   and  brave   a   man    to  grumble   or 

complain; 

He  knew  the  path  was  open,  leading  to  the  golden  gate, 
So  when  we  tried  to  pity  him  he  simply  said,  "I'll  wait." 

They  used  to  say,  when  he  was  young  he  loved  a  maiden 

true, 
But  had  no  means  to  wed  the  girl:  what  could  the  good 

man  do? 

An  older  brother  of  his'n  had  involved  the  whole  estate; 
But  Uncle  Abner  turned  right  in   and   brung  it   all  out 

straight. 

And  earlier  still,  afore  he  married,   when  just  beginning 

life, 
Young  friends  of  his  rushed  madly  in,  and  went  down  in 

the  strife; 
But  Uncle  Abner  took  it  cool,  he  went  no  break-neck  gait, 


—  40  — 

When  people  tried  to  urge  him  on,  he  always  said,  "  I'll 

wait." 
He  was  so  kind  and  patient-like  that  people  loved   him 

dear, 

They  sent  him  on  to  Congress  to  represent  us  here; 
And  what  he  thought  was  always  best,  although  he  said 

it  late; 
Whene'er  they  tried  to  push  him  out,  he  always  said,  "I'll 

wait.1' 

Yes,  I  remember  Uncle  Abner,  a'standing  by  the  gate, 
His  hollow   chest,  his  trembling  hand  betold  his  coming 

fate; 
But    when    we    tried    to    pity  him,  he   always  answered 

straight, 
"  Never  mind  about  me,  boys — I'll  wait,  I'll   wait.'' 


—  41  — 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  SHOW. 


Down  to  rest  the  poor  man  lay, 

On  cot  of  iron  and  bed  of  hay, 

To  sleep  his  weary  cares  away; 
Soon  kindly  sleep  enfolded  him, 

The  troubles  of  his  soul  grew  dim — 

He  dreamed  till  break  of  day. 

He  dreamed — he  knew  not  what  he  dreamed, 
So  strangely  changed  his  hard  world  seemed— 

He  dreamed  he  had  a  show. 
Not  shows  like  modern  ones  indeed, 
A  ring,  a  clown,  and  fiery  steed, 

A  mule  that  will  not  go, 
But  simply,  in  his  race  for  bread, 
A  good  fair  show  to  get  ahead. 

Fools,  in  his  dream,  were  esteemed  low, 
Bad  men  and  rascals  likewise  so, 

Good  men  reckoned  high. 
In  fact,  unmasked  did  all  men  stand, 
And  honest  worth  was  in  demand, 

Unselfish  help  was  nigh. 
And  men  no  longer  strived  for  fame, 
Women  likewise  did  the  same, 

All  getting  just  their  due. 


—  42  — 

And  style  and  fashion,  pomp  and  show, 
In  times  like  these  they  needs  must  go 
For  they  are*  never  true. 

Glory  of  rank,  envy  of  name, 

Were  muddled  in  a  mass  the  same — 
All  blood  was  red  not  blue; 

In  such  a  land,  forsooth,  as  this, 

He  dreamed  and  dreamed  and  dreamed  in  bliss- 
Like  wild  the  nio-ht-hours  flew. 

£? 

But,  he  just  dreamed;   when  he  awoke 

He  found  the  magic  spell  was  broke — 

His  dream,  alas,  all  through. 


—  43 


/  HA  VE  A  FRIEND. 


I  have  a  friend,  a  far-off  friend, 
To  whom  I  trust  my  heart. 

I  have  a  friend  so  close  to  me, 
We  cannot  dwell  apart. 

I  have  a  friend  who  loves  me  dear, 
Who  is  a  friend  in  need. 

I  have  a  friend  I  do  not  fear, 
He  is  a  friend  in  deed. 

I  have  a  friend  in  heaven  above, 
The  same  friend  here  below. 

I  have  a  friend  whom  all  must  love, 
If  once  his  heart  they  know, 

I  have  a  friend,  who  is  your  friend, 

He  is  a  friend  to  all. 
I  have  a  friend  who  hears  my  cry, 

Whene'er  for  help  I  call. 

I  have  a  friend,  who  is  as  true, 

As  friend  can  ever  be. 
I  have  a  friend,  whom  I  must  love, 

As  much  as  he  loves  me. 


—  44  — 

I  have  a  friend,  and  so  have  you, 
A  friend  we  both  must  love, 

Whodwelleth  in  a  far-off  land, 
In  the  blue  skies  above. 

I  have  a  friend,  this  friend  so  true, 

Whom  I  have  yet  to  see; 
His  hand  stretched  out  across  the  gulf 

To  guide  and  strengthen  me. 


me  Fledge. 


—  46  — 


THE  PLEDGE. 


A  woman  and  two  small  young  girls,  one  chilly  autumn 

night, 
Were  gathered  in  a  little  room,  where  burned  a  flickering 

light: 

Within  which  was  a  chair  or  two,  a  sofa  old  and  worn, 
A  scanty   rug,  a  table  poor,  a  few   books  thumbed  and 

torn. 
The  mother  and  the  eldest  girl  were  reading  the  hours 

away, 
The   youngest   girl,  just   ten   years  old,    was    busy    with 

blocks  at  play; 
Sometimes  she  lightened  the  silence  by  a  merry  laugh  or 

joke — 
Or,  again,  a  block-house  tumbling  down  the  weary  stillness 

broke. 

At  times  the  little  one  at  play  near  tumbled  off  to  sleep, 
Or  else  with  sad,  distracted  air  engaged  in  thinking  deep; 

"  Say,  mother,  what's  the  sky  made  of?  and  all  the  stars 

so  bright? 

I'd  like  to  see  a  man  so  smart  that  he  could  tell  me  right, 
But  then  I  guess  I  never  will,"  the  little  dreamer  said; 
"  Because  if  any  man's  so  smart — I  guess — I  guess  he's 

dead; 


Or  else,  I'd  like  to  know  just  where  I'll  go  to  when  I  die, 
And  whether   heaven   is   like    this   world,   or  like    those 

worlds  on  high; 

Or  whether  heaven  is  just  a  name  to  make  us  all  be  good, 
I  am  sure  that  if  there  wasn't  any  I'd  be  bad  as  I  could  " — 


"  Hush,  child,"  the  mother  said  in  haste,  "  you  must  not  talk 

that  way, 
There  are  many  things  which  men  don't  know,  but  take 

on  faith   they  say; 
Make  up  your  mind  that  you  can't  know  about  the  worlds 

on  high, 
Have  faith  in  God,  and  do  your  best,  content  with  that  to 

die; 
Ah!  child,  your  father  comes,  he  knocks,  God  pity   you  I 

PraJ> 
Would  heaven  the  love  of  wife  and  home  would  turn  him 

from  his  way; 
Don't  vex  him,  girl,  don't  answer  him,  he'll  harm  you  if 

you  do, 
Just    get    his    supper    out  for  him   and  go  to  bed   when 

through." 
And  saying  this,  she  sat  her  down  and  got  some  knitting 

out, 

Her  daughter  with  the  supper   things  went  busily  about, 
While  reeled  into  the  room  a  man,  drunk,  dead  to  all  just 

shame, 


—  48  — 

Who  damned  his  wife  and  little  girls  by  every  loathsome 

name: 
"  My  supper,  curse  you,  where  is  it!  "  he  called  out  in  a 

roar, 

And,  when  they  set  it  out  for  him,  he  swept  it  to  the  floor. 
The   mother,  in   a  flood  of  tears,  turned   from  the  scene 

away, 
The  youngest  girl  fell  on  her  knees  and  turned  to  heaven 

to  pray: 

"  Oh  Father,   in  heaven  above,"  she  said,  k' deliver  us  this 

day, 
Soften  my  worldly   father's  heart,  and   turn  him  from  his 

way; 

Bid  love  again  abide  with  him,  bid  brutal  passion  die; 
Teach  him    to   know   that   naught  he    does  escapes    thy 

seeing  eye — 
Or,  if  not  this,  then  strike  him  blind,  turn  him  to  stone  or 

clay, 
Force  to  brute  force,  thus  let  him  know  the  life  he  throws 

away; 
Oh,  no,  forgive  me  what  I   say,  but  mother's  heart  will 

break, 

It  is  for  her  I  beg  that  you  of  us  a  care  will  make." 
And  having   spoken,  the  young  soft  heart  succumbed  to 

grief  at  last, 
Sobs  shook  her  form  from  head  to  foot,  while  tears  flowed 

thick  and  fast, 


And  stole  a  silence  o'er  the  room,  a  sudden  change  came 
The  father's  angry  passions  curbed,  his  iierv  look  all  <TO 
He  paused,  he  thought  then  raised  his  head  and  sr> 

with  heartfelt  pain,  " 
"  So   help   me.    God,    I    never   will  touch   another   dj 


The  Dying  woman. 


THE  DYING    WOMAN. 


"Dying!     Oh,  God  !  can  this  be  true! 

My  bit  of  life  already  run. 
Dying  !   what  means  the  word  to  me, 

But  bitter,  ill-paid  work  all  done! 
Dying!     Good  God!  it  is  not  true! 

In  dirt  and  misery;  poor,  forlorn; 
My  little  children  homeless  waifs, 

Better  by  far  if  never  born." 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  Hark!     What  is  that  which  stiikes  my  ear? 

Voices!     What  do  they  say?     I  cannot  tell: 
Low,  mocking  voices!     Hear  them  now! — 
They  mock  my  very  soul  in  hell!" 

*  # 

"  'Tis  nothing,  mother — some  men  in  the  next  street. 

Some  rich  aristocrats  are  at  a  ball. 
'Tis  but  the  feasters'  bantering  talk  you  hear, 
You  only  dreamed  you  heard  them  call." 

"Feasters'  bantering,  idle  talk  in  the  next  street! 

I  only  dreamed  I  heard  them  call! 
But,  no !     They  mock  us,  child — the  wealth  they 

waste  this   night 
Would  long  have  fed  and  clothed  us  all. 


r-j     

"There,  now,  be  patient  with  me,  children,  dear; 

'Twas  but  a  dream  that  drove  me  mad. 
Those,  who  waste  God's  wealth  so  near  at  hand, 

Know  not  that  you  and  I  do  need  so  bad." 
***** 

"Ah!  Hear  that!  child.     A  hollow,  mocking  laugh! 

Retreating  ever!   fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still — 
Cursed  fiend!!     I'll  follow  you  to  death! 
You  dare  not  mock  me  poor  and  ill. 

"  You  dare  not  mock  the  needy,  dying  poor  ! 

Long  have  I  striven  !   Yes,  from  dawn  till  late  ! 
Oh  child  !  but  hear   that  hollow,   mocking  laugh  ! 
Ah !  Ha !  the  bantering,  mocking  laugh  of  fate  ! !" 
***** 

"  Stay,  mother.     You  have  heard  no  mocking  laugh; 

You're  faint  and  sick.     Lie  down  and  rest; 
Be  patient.      If  you   die  this  night, 

The  God  in  heaven  must  deem  it  best. 
*          .  * 

"Right,  child.     I  heard  no  bantering  laugh. 

Naught  but  the  mocking  laugh  of  fate. 
Dying  !  my  child.     What   means  the  word   to  me  ! 

Release  from  envy,  greed  and  hate." 
*  *  *    •  *  # 

"  Dying  !  in  misery  !   wanting  and  forlorn  ; 

And  yet  I  worked  with  all  my  feeble  might. 


—  54  - 

Those  in  the  next  street  waste  in  ease  ! 

Oh  God  !  I  ask  you  ;  is  this  right  ? 
Dying  !  what  means  the  word  to  me  ! 

My  narrow,  cramped  and  meagre  course  well  run, 
Dying  !  I'm  not  afraid  to  die  at  least— 

Oh  God  !  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 


By  the  sea. 


-56  — 


BT  TirE  SEA. 


The  sea  so  calm  and  placid  lies, 
Beneath  the  balmy  summer  skies, 
Its  waters  roll  so  softly  blue, 
That  we  must  fain  believe  it  true, 
That  rnermaid  dwells  in  freedom  there, 
Almost  more  graced  than  mortal  fair. 

The  graceful  mermaid  leads  from  birth, 
A  careless  life  of  joy  and  mirth. 
A  dreamy  child  the  soft  waves  toss, 
Upon  a  downy  couch  of  moss  ; 
A  maiden  grown  she  rules  the  deep, 
Her  moods  the  waters  also  keep, 
They  smile  at  her  in  playful  air, 
And  roar  and  groan  with  her  despair 
They  quiet  lie  whene'er  she  sleeps, 
And  softly  moan  when  sad  she  weeps 
They  dash  the  beach  with  foamy  spray, 
Whene'er  the  maiden  bids  them  play, 
And  when  the  mermaid  goes  ashore, 
Then  unrestrained  theyjnadly  roar. 

Amid  the  dwellers  'mongst  mankind, 
A  rival  fair  such  maid  should  find; 
In  sooth  it  does  most  natural  seem, 


—  57  — 

That  on  the  borders  of  the  stream, 
Should  dwell  a  nymph  almost  as  fair, 
A  creature  of  the  earth  and  air, 
A  merry  lass,  and  wild  and  free, 
Heart  half  at  home  and  half  at  sea. 

In  truth,  in  gentle  southern  clime  ; 

Upon  the  soft  sea  shore, 

Where  gulls  and  swans  their  revels  make, 

And  billows  softly  roar, 

There  dwells  a  maid  so  fair  to  view 

That  all  must  love  who  see, 

Not  beauty's  claim  alone  that  charms, 

But  virtue  wild  and  free. 

A  face  which  is  most  beautiful, 

And  jet  black  hair  and  eyes, 

And  colors  which  in  tint  surpass 

The  pinks  which  grace  the  skies. 

Not  these  I  ween  the  charms  that  win, 

A  pure  smile  sweet  and  true, 

Bespeaks  the  heart,  which  knows  not  yet 

The  harm  a  smile  can  do; 

And  native  sweetness  in  her  breast, 

A  woman's  instinct  too, 

The  child  and  woman  merged  in  one, 

Respect  to  her  is  due. 

A  simple  life  the  maiden  leads, 

In  her  small  cottage  home, 


-  58  — 

A  fisherman  her  father  is, 

Her  mother  dead  and  gone, 

She  has  a  brother,  too,  at  sea, 

Who  rarely  comes  ashore, 

Who  loves  the  ocean  more  than  home, 

And  roams  its  bosom  o'er. 

She  loves  to  sit  at  close  of  day, 

When  duties  all  are  done, 

And  dream  about  the  far-off  lands, 

Beyond  the  setting  sun. 

She  loves  to  think  of  future  days, 

What  fate  may  have  in  store, 

And  wonders  could  she  love  a  home 

Upon  another  shore. 

The  maidens  in  her  native  town, 

Flock  round  her  through  the  day, 

The  natural  leader  she  of  them, 

The  foremost  in  their  play. 

Full  nineteen  summers  does  she  pass, 

In  romping  by  the  sea, 

Her  hand  claimed  not  by  any  man, 

Her  heart  quite  fancy  free, 

Till  one  day  on  this  shore  is  cast, 

Tossed  by  angry  waves, 

A  ship-wrecked  boat  from  other  lands, 

And  gallant  crew  of  braves. 

The  maiden  fair,  upon  the  shore, 

Welcomes  these  homeless  men; 


—  59  — 

The  other  maids  have  run  away 

At  very  sight  of  them. 

The  bravest  one  among  the  crew, 

A  strong  and  handsome  man, 

Asks  the  young  girl  to  lead  them  home. 

And  aid  them  as  she  can. 

A  look  of  pleasure  fills  her  eyes, 

'Tis  plain  that  she  will  do, 

Whatever  lies  her  powers  within, 

To  help  the  ship-wrecked  crew. 

She  walks  along  with  sparkling  eye, 

Beside  the  stalwarth  man, 

She  tells  him  all  the  village  news, 

And  asks  him  whence  he  came  ; 

And  when  they  reach  the  cottage  door, 

She  bids  them  enter  in, 

And  as  they  gather  round  the  fire, 

She  spreads  a  lunch  for  them; 

And  then  she  sees  the  arm  of  him, 

Who  first  accosted  her, 

Is  lying  injured  by  his  side, 

Hurt  by  a  falling  spar, 

She  bids  him  bare  his  brawny  arm, 

And  binds  a  linen  band, 

About  the  muscles  brown  and  strong, 

His  stout  wrist  in  her  hand, 

And  as  she  works  unconscious  thus, 

She  looks  up  in  his  face, 


And  sees  thereon  a  tender  look, 

Which  sets  her  heart  apace: 

She  quits  her  work  a  minute  then, 

She  tries  to  stay  a  blush, 

But  tell-tale  color  stains  her  neck, 

Her  cheeks  a  deep  red  flush; 

But  quickly  she  regains  herself, 

And  binds  the  bandage  fast, 

Tying  his  heart  in  lover's  knot, 

Which  will  forever  last. 

Then  sits  he  down  upon  the  bench, 

The  bravest  in  the  crew, 

And  eats  the  lunch  spread  out  for  him, 

The  maiden  still  in  view, 

And  after  lunch  he  seeks  her  out. 

And  asks  a  question  plain  : 
'  Will  she  leave  these  shores  with  him, 

Ne'er  to  return  again." 

The  maiden  gives  a  little  start, 

No  artful  ways  she  knows, 

All  pale  excuse  and  artifice, 

Aside  she  boldly  throws, 

And  softly  comes  the  true  reply, 

From  depth  of  maiden's  heart  : 
'  She  will  more  gladly  dwell  with  him, 

Than  dwell  from  him  apart." 

Ye  srods  look  down  from  heaven  above 

o 

Upon  this  love  match  true, 


And  add  your  blessing  to  their  loves, 

Each  year  their  loves  renew. 

Not  many  days  now  pass  away,  - 

Scarce  one  short  week  goes  by, 

Before  the  marriage  bells  ring  out, 

And  sound  the  news  on  high. 

All  in  the  village,  come  to  see 

The  handsome  couple  wed  ; 

The  sailors  sound  a  hearty  cheer, 

The  parting  guests  are  sped. 

Then  all  the  merry  fishermaids, 

Who  love  the  handsome  bride, 

Stand  on  the  shore  and  wave  them  off 

Hearts  filled  with  honest  pride, 

And  on  the  winds  the  rumor  comes, 

Soft  floating  to  the  shore: 

That  this  brave  man,  the  lover  true, 

Has  never  loved  before. 


—  64  — 


SKEPTICAL    TO    THE  END. 


"  Say,  I  don't  understand  the  game  we  are  playing. 
Do  you?"  said  the  first  chess-man  to  the  second,  as  they 
moved  around  the  board. 

"  I  may  as  well  confess  that  I  do  not,"  the  second  re 
plied. 

Turning  to  a  third  they  both  put  the  same  question  to 
him  : 

"  Do  you  understand  this  game?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  third,  "we  are  all  trying  to  see 
who  can  stay  the  longest  on  the  board,  and  who  can  travel 
over  the  most  ground  while  doing  the  same." 

"So!"  they  both  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  the  third  put  in. 

"  Still,  I  have  heard  it  said,"  resumed  the  first,  "  that 
a  planning  force  behind  us  plays  out  the  game — that  we 
are  mere  puppets  to  his  ends." 

"  Oh,  pshaw,"  they  all  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  it  said,"  the  first  went  on,  "  and  the 
more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  reasonable  it  seems.  Surely 
all  our  goings  on  must  be  towards  some  end." 

"  We  have  our  own  ends  in  outlasting  and  overmas 
tering  the  others,"  the  third  exclaimed. 

"  That  is  one  end,  but  I,  for  one,  am  coming  to  believe 
in  a  higher  end,"  the  first  rejoined. 

"Oh,  pshaw,"  they  all  again  exclaimed. 

The  first  said  no  more,  and  tke  play  resumed. 


YC   16708 

U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


